Chapter 26: Texas

I assumed that I would always be a Texan. I married a Texan. We made our life among the ancient oak trees and raised our kids among the bluebonnets. We had become accustomed to the culture of BBQ, cowboy boots, big trucks, and even bigger egos. It was our home.

At least until June.
And then, it became our past.

The weeks leading up to The Move were pure chaos. We spent months getting our condo fixed up, only to sell it in one day. We juggled craigslist buyers, boxes, and good-byes – all while maintaining the routine of school, work, and life.

Our dear friends threw a Texas-themed going away party. It would be our final hurrah.

A thunderstorm raged as we trekked through the city to their house. Roads were flooding. Wipers sloshing. Then, as soon as we pulled into their driveway, the rain suddenly stopped. It was as if some other force was orchestrating the entire event.

Once inside, we sipped on margaritas, while outside, the kids captured frogs. We smiled over fajitas and filled each other in on the latest news/gossip/plans.

It was as it always had been. Sharing meals. Memories.







The night was perfect. We danced on the lawn, then took way-too-many pictures of the bright, burning sunset. We laughed/cried. And laughed/cried some more.

There were promises of visiting. And good, compelling intentions. But there, lingering, was the space in between. The knowledge that things would be different. And that the chapter, This Chapter, was closing.

You know that trite, almost tart, saying “Better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all”? Well, it’s true. Spot on. I will always cherish the time we had in Austin. All the firsts. And all the lasts. I have no doubt that we are the people we are today because of the experiences, relationships, and seasons that shaped us.

Texas is no longer our home. But I love telling people that it’s where we’re from.

Chapter 25: The First Step

I have an affinity for lists.  I love writing things down – and especially crossing things off.  One of my favorite lists is my bucket list.  Each year, I scribble down new goals.  Some are strong and substantial.  Others, trivial.  But, one item that never left my list was to run a half-marathon.

I’m not sure why I wrote it in the first place.  I am not a runner.  I love the idea of running, but not the practice of it.  I ran my first 5K two years ago and felt like I had accomplished an Ironman.  Afterwards, friends asked if I wanted to run the Austin marathon with them and I laughed.  Me?!  I think I’d rather get a root canal.  Or ten.

And then my non-running, noncompetitive friend, Jeanette, finished the half.  Mind you, she hated it.  But she was so glad for the experience, saying, “It reminded me that I can do hard things.”  

I was sold.  I signed up and paid the fee.  

It’s funny how sometimes all it takes is another person to go before you to assure you that everything will be okay.  To breathe deep in the certainty that if she/he/they did __________, then I can do __________.

I started training nine months before the race.  My schedule revolved around my jogs and I found myself focused like I had never been before.  I would speed home from school during the weekdays and wake early on the weekends.  I contended with the weather and my mood (one was almost always foul).  But still, I pushed on.

Then it was February.  Valentine’s weekend.  My sister, Laurie, drove down I-35 to run with me.  And I was so grateful to not be alone.

We started together.  Side by side.  Then I slowed down and urged her to go ahead.  Somewhere around mile three, my body got into a rhythm.  My breathing syncopated to my feet-pounding and heart-beating.  My mind floated between thoughts and awareness.  

By mile ten, my muscles started to weaken and I was moved my sheer will power.  And then, I crossed the finish line.  I wandered down the tunnel, legs numb, eyes wet.  I couldn’t believe I did it!  I still can’t believe that I did it.

Jeanette was right.  We can do hard things.  

It begins with the first step.

Chapter 24: Drive

They say that kids thrive with structure; that they relax in the stability.  And while I think it’s good to live in a daily rhythm, I also love what happens when we break the pattern and let life carry us wherever it will.

One weekend in October we did just that.  We pushed aside our to-do list and filled up our gas tank.  We had only two goals in mind: to pick pumpkins and fill our bellies at Alamo Spring Cafe.  But on a whim, we took a detour and turned before the pumpkin patch into the LBJ Ranch.  We’ve lived in Austin for over fourteen years and have never set foot on the property.  Something about always having an itinerary, made it difficult to stop.  But not today.  Today, we were explorers of the casual variety. Like loitering teens at the mall, we would stop if something caught our eye and shuffle by if it was boring.

The first stop was the one-room school house where Johnson started school.  The kids were giddy to find the wishing well out front and the outhouse, well, out back.

Then we drove for what seemed like miles through the ranch – over cattle guards and past grazing herds.  We laughed at Duke screaming shrill and panicked as we stopped the car by one particular cow.  He demanded that we roll up the window because it was “going to get” him.  And then we stopped laughing because we realized that he was legitimately scared.  (Clearly, Eloise stole all the animal-loving genetics.)

Later, we parked the car and joined the herd of tourists milling about the retired Air Force One plane.  Then we wandered around the terminal, watching videos form LBJ’s childhood and taking pictures behind the Presidential podium.

I was struck by the idea of how many people described Johnson as “driven” and “a natural leader” even as a child.  I wondered how much of a person’s personality is predisposed and how much can be altered.  Are we are truest selves when we’re young and unfiltered? 

As we drove away from the ranch and towards our agenda, I kept rolling around the idea of self and stories.  I wonder what people will say about me, and you, when we’re gone?  What descriptions will they use?  And will it even matter?

But then we pulled into Vogel Orchard and I left the idea lingering in the car.  We had more pressing matters at hand, like hunting down the perfect pumpkin.  One with a great personality.

Chapter 23: Lessons

I forget sometimes what the world looks like when you’re four: where everything looms large and Dads looks like superheroes.  Sometimes I get so focused on my own world that I forget to see others orbiting around me.

This fall, Duke’s world took a major shift as he went from a publicly funded daycare to a privately run Montessori.  It was a change in setting, expectations, and personalities.  It was like starting a new job – without a job description.  I couldn’t help but be excited as I still remember my days in Montessori.  But Duke was anything but eager, especially on the coattails of summer.

The first day was tolerable, but the second day was devastating.  He gave us the silent treatment the entire car ride home.  Then, as soon as we walked in the door, he broke.  Sobbing, he told us how he didn’t like school.  How he didn’t know how to swing.  How the teachers didn’t push him. How all the other kids knew how… Except him.  My heart ached.

It was hard to see him in so much turmoil.  My knee-jerk reaction was to be upset with the teachers.  How dare they not push him on the swing?  Don’t they know he’s only four? And new? And sensitive?!  Fortunately, I’m not a single parent and my better, more-reasonable, half calmly announced “Then, we’ll have to learn!  Tomorrow, the first thing we’ll do after school is go to the playground and I’ll teach you how to swing.”

And that’s just what we did.  The next afternoon we marched straight to the swings.  Eloise was showing off.  Duke was getting frustrated.   And Chris was patiently explaining the physics of leg-pumping.

The moment was filled with metaphors.

Being a parent is probably the most demanding job I’ve ever had.  There are layers of responsibilities and heaps of frustration.  It’s heart-breaking to watch your child struggle and not do anything about it.  And while fixing the situation would be easier, it wouldn’t be fulfilling.

There’s this video that I show my students about how struggle makes you stronger.  We talk about conflict and how it makes a better story.  And while learning to swing might seem silly to most people, to a four-year-old, it means everything. 

When we picked up Duke the next day after school, he was beaming.  Anxiously, we asked how it went on the swings. He said that he went so high, he touched the leaves. 

At that moment, Chris became my superhero.  (It’s a perspective that Duke and I both share about him.)

Chapter 22: Life's a Beach

I have this thing for camping.  I really, REALLY like it.  In fact, I kind of glorify it.  But like childbirth, I’ve forgotten the not-so-pleasant parts and only remember the glowing ones.  I feel the same way about beaches.  So I thought there would be no better way to celebrate my birthday and Easter than with the ones I love, doing what I love, in a place that I love.  It would be our first Family Campout!  I imagined running slow motion, holding hands, splashing into the waves.  I daydreamed about watching the sun melt over the gulf while the campfire cracked.  And laughing.  Lots of laughing.

It took a full day to pack and prep, and another day to drive.  By the time we actually arrived to Padre Island National Seashore, our car and our nerves were about to burst.  The anticipation had been killing us.  Everything was exciting:  “Look a seagull!”  “Wow, the smell of salt water!”  “Kids, isn’t this FUN?!!”

We scoffed at the “4-wheel drive only” sign, changed the suspension’s setting to Sand, and plowed through the tire tracks looking for the perfect place to pitch our tent. 

I use the word “pitch” very loosely.  Because in our inexperience, we hadn’t accounted for the hurricane-like-gusts that Never. Died. Down.  It was like trying to drape a table cloth in a wind tunnel.  The only things not whipping violently were the items we threw in the tent or left in the car.  This, of course, also posed a problem for the campfire.  Chris spent  hours trying to dig a hole deep enough to block the wind – and even then it was more meowing than roaring. 

It was hard not to be disappointed.  This was not how I imagined it!  I hadn’t planned on the seaweed drifts, rotting and squishy.  Or the layer of dampness on every square inch of fabric.  Or trying to fall asleep to the pounding of the waves. 

But I also hadn’t prepared for the sunrise.  Or the floating feeling of peace.

We woke up Easter morning groggy, hair-matted, wind-beaten.  And worn out.  The kids smashed confetti-filled cascarones on each other’s heads and then Chris waded out with them, helping them high-jump over the waves.

I was overwhelmed with emotion.  I had been so focused on wanting the Hollywood version that I had forgotten about the Here-and-Now version.  The messy, raw, and beautiful version.

Weeks after we returned, I would still find grains of sand.  I would roll my eyes.  Then smile. And laugh. 

Chapter 21: Believe Me

It feels cliché to even say it, but our Disney cruise vacation was once-in-a-lifetime.  (And no, I’m not being compensated for writing this).  Our family had been planning the trip for years.  It was going to be the biggest excursion we had ever attempted: 10 adults and 8 kids flying into Miami to join other crazed cruise-goers on a floating resort.

The thing is, when doing anything Disney, you have to live by the mantra “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”  This is not the place to show any restraint.  This is one of the few places where dressing like a pirate is not only allowed, but encouraged.  As well as joining other strangers in a conga line after dinner.  And ordering two entrees just because you can.

We indulged in everything offered: food, entertainment, service.  We never lifted a finger.  Never chipped a nail.  It was pure vacation.

I realized something though.  The reason the Disney Empire has survived is because it gives people something to believe in.  The stories that sell are those of triumph.  The character is an outcast or the family is broken.  The pain is ruggedly real.  But, the conflict is always resolved; the good guy always wins!  And we see ourselves in the stories.  Maybe I’m being oversentimental, but for one week, we got to experience the magic of Disney.  We got to escape from the trials of daily life and given something with wings.  We left the stress and burdens and drama back on shore.  We got a glimpse of hope.

There’s this line from the movie Failure to Launch where Matthew McConaughey says something about “You don’t love boats.  You love the idea of a boat. But the reality of it is, they’re just a drain on your time, wallet, and emotions.”   I’m pretty sure he was talking about more than just a boat.  But, I’ve always loved that line.  I think a lot of people love things because they love the idea of that thing.  Like Disney, they stand for something bigger and more beautiful.  And maybe that’s the point.  Maybe we could all use a little more belief in our lives.

Chapter 20: Together

I’ve pinched myself a lot this year. I’ll be tucking the kids into bed and be interrupted by Chris’s stomping and “Fee Fi Fo Fumming.” The kids shrieking/giggling. Or I’ll sleepwalk downstairs in the morning to the dreamy smell of rich coffee and see him whisking eggs as only a drummer could: quick and on tempo.

It’s almost surreal to be on the same schedule this year after seasons of being opposite. It feels normal and comfortable and right. We’re no longer single parents sharing an address. We are a family – in the most beautifully messy way.

So by the time Thanksgiving came around, the comparisons between the previous year and this year were startling. Last year, Chris was off for the 24 hours of Thanksgiving Day. It was formulaic and forced. We ate dinner at 10 PM, exhausted, thankful that we didn’t kill each other in the process.

But this year, oh, this year! We had five days off. Together. My parents came down to join us and we escaped to a lake house where we were wonderfully, eerily, alone. Chris morphed into Jacques Pépin as he orchestrated culinary arrangements that were like none other. We ate and ate and then ate some more. There was no agenda. No rushing off to something. No distractions. It was what vacation is supposed to be: a chance to vacate the normalcy and routine.

Looking back at the loneliness of the previous year, I am so grateful for what it taught me. I will never take for granted the simplicity of being with those you love. And I realize the best gift you can give anyone, is the gift of time.